CHAPTER XIIIWINDSOR AND ETON

Therewith to build hospitals, helping the sick,Or roads that are rotten full rightly repair,Or bridges, when broken, to build up anew.

Therewith to build hospitals, helping the sick,

Or roads that are rotten full rightly repair,

Or bridges, when broken, to build up anew.

MAIDENHEAD

The main road between London and Bath, a well-known coaching road, runs this way, and a very good road it is. The railway bridge crosses below the road, but it is of brick with wide arches, and is by no means unsightly. Between the two is the River-side club, where a band plays on the smooth green lawn in the season, and the smartest of smart costumes are the rule. Near here also is Bond's boat-house and a willow-grown islet. There are numbers of steps and railings and landing stages, all painted white, and these give a certain lightness to the scene. Close by the bridge are several hotels, of which the oldest established is Skindle's, low-lying and creeper-covered, on the Taplow side. Boats for hire line the banks everywhere, for many cater for the wants of the butterfly visitor, out of whom enough must be taken in the season to carry the establishments on through the winter; and the river visitor is essentially a butterfly. Few know the charms of the Thames in the winter, when, in an east and west stretch, the glowing red ball of the sun sinksbehind dun banks of mist; when the trees are leafless, and the skeleton branches are outlined against a pale clear sky; when a touch of frost is in the air, and the river glides so stilly that it almost seems asleep.

A bitter day, that early sankBehind a purple frosty bankOf vapour, leaving night forlorn.—Tennyson.

A bitter day, that early sankBehind a purple frosty bankOf vapour, leaving night forlorn.

A bitter day, that early sank

Behind a purple frosty bank

Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.

—Tennyson.

The visitor goes to the river in the summer because of its coolness, and though the coolness is ofttimes delusive, being in appearance rather than reality, lying in the sight of the sparkles and the sound of the ripples, yet it is a fine make-believe. Such river-side hotels as cater for the season are content to lie dormant all the chill long winter, until, with the breath of early spring, the celandines raise their polished golden faces and the lords and ladies stud the hedgerows. Then a few adventurous beings come down on the first fine days, like the early swallows, a portent that summer is at hand; and these lucky people have the river largely to themselves, and do not find lovers in every attractive backwater; and if they have to row to keep themselves warm, they gain an increase of vigour that no burning summer sun can give.

The view from Maidenhead Bridge northwards—forhere the river runs due south—is spoilt by the gasometers which rise over the willow-covered islets. But once past Boulter's Lock, the scenery improves with every hundred yards. Close by the lock itself is Ray Mead Hotel, where the deep carmine-tinted geraniums grow in quantities. Sometimes as many as three hundred people are supplied with tea at the hotel on a fine summer afternoon, while over a thousand pass through the lock. Above Boulter's is a secluded backwater formed by the stream of a mill, and this is one of the pleasantest retreats in the neighbourhood.

... In my boat I lieMoor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats.—Matthew Arnold.

... In my boat I lieMoor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats.

... In my boat I lie

Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats.

—Matthew Arnold.

Above the river, on the east, rise the cliff-like heights of Clieveden, wooded to their summits, and seen magnificently by reason of the curve at the end of the reach, which gives their full sweep at one glance. The cliff rises to a height of 140 feet, but the thickness of the trees, and their own height towering above, make it look much higher. The trees are of all kinds, oak and beech, chestnut and ash, and many a dark evergreen; while here and there a Lombardy poplar shoots up like a straight line, and the wild clematis throws its shawls ofgreenery from tree to tree, giving the whole the appearance of a tropical forest. Seen in early spring, when the tender green of the beeches and the bursting gummy buds of the horse-chestnut are shedding a veil over the fretwork of twig and bough, they are glorious enough; but in autumn, when orange and russet break out in all directions, they are, perhaps, more imposing. River people do not, as a rule, see them at their best, for before that touch of frost has come which sends a flame of crimson over the maples, and heightens the orange of the beeches, the fairweather boatsman has fled to his fireside.

At one point we catch a glimpse of Clieveden itself, standing high and facing downstream. Evelyn says in his diary:

I went to Clifden, that stupendous natural rock, wood, and prospect, of the Duke of Buckingham's, buildings of extraordinary expense.... The stande, somewhat like Frascati as to its front, and on the platform is a circular view to the utmost verge of the horizon, which, with the serpenting of the Thames, is admirable.... But the land all about wretchedly barren, and producing nothing but fern.

The taste of those days differed from ours; now we should prefer to see an expanse of ferns to a field of potatoes.

The first great mansion here was built by "Steenie," the Duke of Buckingham, King Charles's favourite. He was a villain, even for a time of slack morals, and the chief association connected with his house is that he brought here a comrade in every way suited to him, in the person of the Countess of Shrewsbury, who stood by, dressed as a page, holding his horse, while he killed her husband in a duel. The house was twice burnt down; the present one was built about the middle of the nineteenth century, and belongs to Mr. Astor. A pleasanter memory is that of the poet Thomson, whose masqueAlfredwas acted here in 1740, on the birthday of Princess Augusta. This contained, as a kernel, the song "Rule Britannia," destined to survive long after its husk had been forgotten.

Opposite Clieveden the ground is low lying, and, to use Evelyn's word, the river "serpents" a good deal. There are several islands, on one of which, called Formosa, there is a house. There are several side-streams crossed by footbridges, and in one of these is the lock. The main stream continues in a great sweep, and is guarded by two weirs. The fishing here is very popular, and though it belongs to Lord Boston, permission to fish maybe obtained by writing beforehand. Hedsor Church stands well on high ground near; and with its bosky foliage and many islets, the river here is not a bad place in which to idle away many an hour.

The hotel at Cookham is right down on the water's edge, and from its lawn a charming view is gained of the main stream breaking into its many channels, with the wooded island of Formosa in the middle. All about here is a favourite place for anglers, and many a punt is moored across stream with its ridiculous chairs on which sit two or three solemn elderly men, content to sit, and sit, and watch the dull brown water rush beneath for hour after hour, without once raising their eyes to see the green of the witching trees, or listening to the hum of the joyous life around them. To an onlooker they appear to be quaffing the flattest part of the sport, having missed all its head and froth. How different the punt fisher's day from that of the man who starts off up-stream, through many a low-lying willow-fringed meadow, who reaches over to land his fly in the deep brown pool into which the stream falls. Punt fishing, like loch fishing, must have its fascinations, or few would do it, but it lacks all the sparkle expressed in such a song as that of Walton's, for instance:

In a morning, up we rise,Ere Aurora's peeping,Drink a cup to wash our eyes,Leave the sluggard sleeping.Then we goTo and fro,With our knacksAt our backs,To such streamsAs the Thames,If we have the leisure.

In a morning, up we rise,

Ere Aurora's peeping,

Drink a cup to wash our eyes,

Leave the sluggard sleeping.

Then we go

To and fro,

With our knacks

At our backs,

To such streams

As the Thames,

If we have the leisure.

The less said about the rhyme the better, but this has the swing and lilt of the true feeling!

From Cookham Bridge we can see the gaily covered lawn of the hotel, where a perfect flotilla of craft is anchored, while the owners have tea or more cooling drinks; and turning we can view the wide expanse of Bourne End, where the races of the Upper Thames Sailing Club are held all the summer, and where, about the end of June, when the great regatta is held, the surface of the water is dotted with swan-like boats.

However disappointed a foreign monarch, on his first visit to England, may be with the drab hideousness of Buckingham Palace, he cannot but confess that in Windsor Castle we have a dwelling meet even for the King of England. Both architecturally and by reason of its age, Windsor is a truly royal palace. Its history is linked with that of our kings until its very stones proclaim the annals of our country. Ages ago, Edward the Confessor took a fancy to thisquiet place by the Thames, and he gave it to his beloved monks of Westminster. William I. saw what a splendid shooting lodge might be built in the midst of the wild and open country abounding in game, and after having first one shooting lodge and then another in the neighbourhood, he acquired the high outstanding boss or knob of chalk on which the castle stands, and built thereon a residence for himself. His son, Henry I., altered it greatly; and succeeding kings and queens have rarely been content to leave it without an alteration or addition as their mark. Windsor has ever been a favourite with royalty. It has held its own while Westminster and Whitehall and Greenwich utterly vanished; while the Tower and Hampton have ceased to be royal dwellings; and it is still pre-eminently the royal castle. Certain kings, such as William III., have sometimes preferred other places for a while, but Windsor has satisfied alike the dignity of Edward III. and the homeliness of George III.

WINDSOR CASTLE

The situation is superb. The castle stands high above the river, which here curves, so as to show off its irregular outlines to the greatest advantage. They rise in a series of rough levels to the mighty Round Tower, the crown of the whole,which is massive enough to dominate, but not sufficiently high to dwarf the rest. Turrets, battlements, and smaller towers serve only to emphasize the dignity of this central keep. It was built in the time of Edward III., and strangely enough, though altered and heightened in that worst period of architectural taste, the reign of George IV., it was not spoiled; and even to a child proclaims something of the grandeur one naturally associates with it.

As seen from the bridge the whole of the north range can be followed by the eye, from the Prince of Wales's Tower, facing the east terrace, to the Curfew Tower on the west. Intermediately there are the State apartments, and the Norman gateway, over which is the Library. These overlook the north terrace—open to the public at all hours from sunrise to sunset.

The view from this terrace is very fine, stretching away to Maidenhead, and at times, on days of cloud and shadow, the light-coloured walls of Clieveden stand out suddenly, caught by a passing gleam, amid a forest of green trees. We can look down on the whole of Eton—the church with its tall spire; the buttresses and pinnacles of the chapel standing up white against an indigobackground; the red and blue roofs piled this way and that; and the green playing fields girdled by the swift river. It was on the castle terrace that George III. used to walk with all his family, except the erring eldest, when he took those tiresome parades which Miss Burney describes with so much life-like detail.

The Chapel cannot be seen from the river, as it is in the lower ward behind the canons' houses, and is not sufficiently high to rise well above them.

It would be of little use to attempt to tell stories of Windsor, for its history belongs to the history of England and not to the river Thames; yet there is one memory which may be noted. Young James Stuart of Scotland had been sent by his father, Robert III., to France after the death of his elder brother, the wild Duke of Rothesay, nominally for education, but in reality for safe keeping. The boy was captured by the English while on the sea and brought as a prisoner to England. He was then only about ten or twelve years old. He was treated with every consideration, and educated so worthily that he became afterwards one of the best of all the Scottish kings. He was at first in the Tower and elsewhere, but when he reached youngmanhood he was brought to Windsor, where he had apartments allotted to him. Though he was allowed to follow the chase and pursue the amusements of his time, he was yet a prisoner, and the sad opening stanzas of his great poem, theKingis Quair, speak the melancholy he often felt. This poem was composed at Windsor, and its pensiveness changes after the day when, looking down from his window in the castle, the youth saw walking in the garden Joan Beaufort, whom he afterwards made his wife:

And therewith cast I down mine eye again,Where as I saw, walking under the tower,The fairest or the freshest young flowerThat ever I saw methought before that hour.

And therewith cast I down mine eye again,

Where as I saw, walking under the tower,

The fairest or the freshest young flower

That ever I saw methought before that hour.

His visions further on in the poem must have been coloured more or less by what he daily saw before him, and we may credit to the Thames the flowing lines:

Where in a lusty plain took I my way,Along a river pleasant to behold,Embroidered all with fresh flowers gay,Where, through the gravel, bright as any gold,The crystal water ran so clear and cold.

Where in a lusty plain took I my way,

Along a river pleasant to behold,

Embroidered all with fresh flowers gay,

Where, through the gravel, bright as any gold,

The crystal water ran so clear and cold.

WINDSOR

Windsor should be seen in sunshine and heat, when black shadows set off the towering walls, and all the uneven houses and crooked streetsare pieced in light and shade. Then it is exceedingly like a foreign town in its details; and many people who travel miles to admire Chinon, and others of its class, would do well to visit Windsor first.

The town has always been subordinate to the castle, for it was the castle that caused the town to spring up, as there were always numbers of artificers, attendants, grooms, workmen and others needed for the service of the Court. In the fourteenth century it was reckoned that the Court employed an army of 20,000 of such people. These would all have to be housed somehow, and the nearer the protection of the castle the better; hence the town on the slopes.

The Home Park, in which is the mausoleum, borders the river. It is separated by a road from the Great Park, made for hunting. Pope's poem on "Windsor Forest" is not particularly beautiful; perhaps the best descriptive lines are those that follow:

There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,Thin trees arise that shun each others shades:Here in full light the russet plains extend;There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend.

There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,

Thin trees arise that shun each others shades:

Here in full light the russet plains extend;

There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend.

Windsor Park is introduced by Shakspeare asthe scene of some of Falstaff's escapades, an honour shared by the neat, bright village of Datchet, opposite. Datchet is a model village grouped about a green, and the houses are softened by all the usual creepers and bushes: we see roses, jasmine, laurustinus, magnolia, and ampelopsis at every turn. Above and below Datchet this clean neatness continues.

The Victoria and Albert bridges are severe, and the weir and the great bow of the channel, which is cut by the lock-stream, have no particular characteristics. The whole neighbourhood has rather the air of holding itself on its best behaviour, as though royalty might any moment appear upon the scene. As might be expected, the scenery is rather like the poetry it inspired. Here is Sir John Denham's effusion about Coopers Hill:

My eye, descending from the hill, surveysWhere Thames, among the wanton valleys strays:Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sonsBy his old sire, to his embraces runs:Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,Like mortal life to meet eternity.

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys

Where Thames, among the wanton valleys strays:

Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons

By his old sire, to his embraces runs:

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,

Like mortal life to meet eternity.

There is a pretty reach below Old Windsor, where willows and poplars are massed effectively. It is in places like this, where they growabundantly, that the beautiful tawny colour which willows assume in the spring, just before bursting into leaf, can be best seen.

The Bells of Ouseley stands at a bend, and with its tinted walls and the old elm tree growing close to the entrance, is a typical old-English Inn. The road to Staines passes by the water's edge, and the guide-post is less reticent than guide-posts are wont to be, for it tells us this is the "Way to Staines, except at high-water."

As we pass softly back up the current to Eton, we think how often in this reach the incomparable Izaak and his friend Sir Henry Wotton fished together.

I sat down under a willow tree by the water side ... for I could there sit quietly, and, looking on the water, see some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams, others leaping at flies of several shapes and colours; ... looking down the meadows, could see here a boy gathering lilies and ladysmocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeys and cowslips.

Wotton built a fishing box a mile below the college, from which he and Walton often sallied forth during the fifteen years he was provost of Eton, and to his rod many a "jealous trout that low did lie, rose at a well dissembled fly," as he himself has left on record.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towersThat crown the wat'ry glade,Where grateful Science still adoresHer Henry's holy shade;And ye, that from the stately browOf Windsor's heights th' expanse belowOf grove, of lawn, of mead survey,Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers amongWanders the hoary Thames alongHis silver-winding way.—Gray.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers

That crown the wat'ry glade,

Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way.

—Gray.

In rounding the great sweep of the river below the London and South Western railway bridge, we catch at once the pinnacles of Eton chapel—most glorious of chapels—and see the green playing fields.

The long tree-covered island of Romney, on one side of which lies the lock, ends in a terrible "snout," strengthened by "camp-shedding." This point is locally known as the "Cobbler," and is a source of peril to many an inexperienced boatman.

ETON CHAPEL FROM THE FIELDS

The bridge over the river can, unfortunately, hardly be called a good feature in the landscape—it is as ugly as a railway bridge! Just above it is a row of boat-houses, and then follows the Brocas, the famous meadow. Above the bridge is a tiny islet which serves as an objective in the Fourth of June procession of boats. The boats come down and round the island, and once morereturning, pass under the bridge to the lock, having made a sort of spiral. Nearly all the Eton races are rowed in this strip of the river, though, of course, Henley Regatta is the greatest event in the boating calendar. A small string of islands faces some little public gardens, and away northward winds the Great Western Railway on a series of small arches which carry it over the marshy ground, no doubt at one time under water.

Beyond the line is a small backwater known as Cuckoo weir, the bathing place of the lower boys. Here the swimming trials take place, when a set of trembling pink youngsters stand in a punt ready to take a graceful header, or, from sheer nervousness, to fall with an ugly flop smack upon the water and be disqualified for the time being!

The bathing place of the upper boys, called by the dignified title of Athens, is further up in the main river, near the curious island on which is Windsor racecourse. The river winds giddily in and out between the end of this island and Upper and Lower Hope, which lie between it and Cuckoo weir. A mill stands at the end of the long narrow stream that separates the racecourse from the mainland, and on the other side of theisland is Boveney Lock. The quaint old chapel stands amid trees further up.

Above the island was once Surley Hall, a favourite resort of the Etonians, but it is now pulled down, and Monkey Island is the place to go to on half-holidays. Monkey Island is a good way up, and is the third of a row of islands. The little one below it, called Queen's ait, now belongs to the Eton boys, who have built a small cottage on it. Monkey Island itself is a curious and attractive place, except when the launches come up from Windsor on Saturdays, bringing hundreds of people, who sit about at little tables on the green sward under the famous walnut trees, and call for refreshments. There is a large pavilion, part boat-house, which belongs to the Eton boys, where they can get tea served without mingling with the townspeople. Near it is a quaint little temple. This, as well as the house, now the hotel, was built by the third Duke of Marlborough, a man of curious taste. The hall in the hotel is painted all round with the figures of monkeys engaged in various sports and pastimes. There is a broad frieze which appears to have been executed in water colours on plaster; the ceiling is likewise painted, but in rather a different style. Themonkeys are a good size, and attract a vast crowd of visitors. The pretty verandah round the hotel redeems its appearance externally. Inside it has at once all the attractions and disadvantages of an old house—low ceilings, very small rooms; but on the other hand there are windings and twistings, crooked passages and odd corners, that delight the heart of those to whom machine-made houses are an abomination. The duke's bedroom is shown, and is as queerly shaped a room as ever mortal man conceived. Monkey Island is being embanked with the precious gravel dredged from the bed of the Thames, and, though no doubt a necessary precaution, as the river insidiously breaks off what it can, the operation is not a beautiful one. The island is very proud of its walnut trees, and well it may be, for they are a great change after the ubiquitous willows, and their gnarled stems and fine shady leaves are just the right element in such a scene as a gay lawn covered with summer folk in summer dresses.

From Monkey Island the little church tower of Bray can be seen, but before reaching it Bray Lock has to be negotiated, and here are a long sinuous osier-covered ait and a mill, making, as usual, a convenient backwater.

Bray is truly a charming place, and one could find it in one's heart to forgive the vicar who turned his coat to keep his vicarage. The real man lived in the reign of Henry VIII. and his successors, and changed his religious practices in conformity with those of the sovereign for the time being, turning from Roman Catholic to Reformed Church, Reformed to Roman Catholic, and back once more with ease and pliability. In the ballad he is represented as living in the seventeenth century, and his gymnastics refer to the varying fortunes of the house of Stuart, and the Romish tendencies of the later kings of that house. Fuller, with his usual quaintness, remarks of him that he had seen some martyrs burnt at Windsor and "found this fire too hot for his tender temper." But one would fain believe it was not altogether cowardice, but also a love of his delightful village, that made him so amenable. The little flint and stone tower of the church peeps at the river over a splendid assortment of evergreens—laurels, holm oaks, yews, and spruce firs being particularly noticeable—and the old vicarage with this growth of sheltering trees and its smooth lawn right down to the water's edge, is certainly a place that one wouldthink twice about before leaving. The village itself is so irregular that, tiny as it is, one may get lost in it. There are endless vistas of gable ends, of bowed timbers, of pretty porches, and worn brick softly embraced by vine or wistaria; yet even in Bray, new red brick is making its way. One of the most interesting features is the almshouses, and if one lands by the hotel, they are reached after only a few minutes' walk. The exterior is very quaint; large cylindrical yews and hollies, like roly-poly puddings on end, stand up in stubborn rank before the worn red brick. The statue of the founder, of an immaculate whiteness, with the glitter of gilt in the coat-of-arms below, just lightens the effect. Through an ancient arch one passes to the quadrangle, which is filled with tiny flower-beds, and surrounded by a low range of red brick with dormer windows. At the other side is the chapel covered with ivy, and this, with the little diamond panes and the brightness of the variegated flower-beds, is home-like and cosy. Yet it must be confessed that in his well-known picture, "The Harbour of Refuge," admittedly taken from Bray, Frederick Walker, the artist, has greatly improved the scene with artistic licence. The raised terrace at the side, the greater widthof the quadrangle, the smooth green lawn and sheltering central tree in his picture, are far more harmonious and beautiful than the reality.

Bray is a very popular haunt with artists and boating people. In summer the George Hotel cannot take in all its visitors, and beds are hired all over the village, consequently, anyone wishing to spend some weeks in Bray must make arrangements well beforehand. This is not to be wondered at, because, as well as its own attractions, it is within easy reach of Maidenhead and the delights beyond, and its unspoilt quaintness makes it ideal to stay in. Long may Bray remain as it is, unaltered and a tiny village.

Magna Charta Island is something of a shock at first sight; it is so exceptionally well cared for and so pretty. One pictures a tangle of wild trees, a mass of rushes, osiers perhaps, and general grimness. The osiers are confined to a fraction of the island; on the remainder is a prettily-built house of a fair size, with the very best sort of river-lawn, on which grow various fine and regular trees. Many are the evergreens; and the boskyholm oak, the dignified stone pine, and the flourishing walnut, seen in conjunction with the beautifully kept turf and bright flower-beds, are altogether unlike one's conception of the place.

It is true that, though the island has the name of it, it is now generally supposed that the actual signing of our great charter of liberties took place on the mainland. John had delayed, and played false, and postponed the issue for long, but he knew now that all was up, and he was cornered. A truce was declared, and from Windsor he agreed to meet his barons and "concede to them the laws and liberties which they asked." The fifteenth of June was fixed for the day, and Runney Mead, or Runnymede, for the place. With the barons were almost the whole of the English nobility; with John, certain ecclesiastical powers, namely, the Archbishops of Canterbury and Dublin, and seven bishops, as well as some earls and barons. It is quite obvious that the barons could have had no idea of the vast consequences of their act. They would have been astonished could they have foreseen that it would become the basis of the English constitution. They merely wanted to bind down a particular king who had outraged their liberties.

One can hardly imagine a better place for theassembling of a great body of armed men than these meadows by the river. The land is as flat as a platform, and sheltered to the south by the heights of Cooper's Hill, which rise like the tiers in an amphitheatre. The Long Mead, with the exception of the road now running across it, must have looked very much then as it does now. Runney Mead is more altered, because it is shut in by hedges. We know not if the day were fine or overcast when the great charter was signed; but when the deed was done John, in a rage, retired to Windsor. The barons remained on the meads for about ten days, during which the place must have been like a fair.

It is very hot on this part of the river on a sunny day. The trees growing on the banks are all on the north side, and consequently give little shade. They border Ankerwyke Park, and grow so close to the water that many of their roots are in it. The swallows dart to and fro, and clouds of gnats dance like thistledown in the air. Near the banks grow many flowers. The spotted knotweed or persicaria, with its bright flesh-coloured flowers, is sometimes in water, sometimes on the land; the common forget-me-not can be seen peeping up with its bright blue eyes; the pink willow herb flourishes; and the yellow iris and the purpleloosestrife are also to be seen. And when there is no wind the scent of the meadow-sweet and the dog-roses becomes almost overpowering.

Ankerwyke was once a priory. It was appropriated by Henry VIII., who is said to have carried on the courtship of Anne Boleyn under the mighty chestnuts for which it was even then famous:

The tyrant Harry felt love's softening flame,And sighing breathed his Anna Boleyn's name.

The tyrant Harry felt love's softening flame,

And sighing breathed his Anna Boleyn's name.

A bit of doggerel just about worthy of the occasion!

A more interesting association, though one that leads us rather far from the river, is Milton's residence at Horton. He lived here with his parents for five years after leaving Cambridge, and no doubt his rambles over country which would not then be hedged in and cut up as it is now, often led him in the direction of the river. It was this scenery, noted at those deeply impressionable years, that he could still see when earthly sight was gone.

LycidasandComuswere both written in the next four or five years, and in

The willows and the hazel copses green

we have a touch of real nature breaking through the conventional allusions to vines and wild thyme; also:

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint, enamell'd eyesThat on the green turf suck the honied showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears.Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tears.—Lycidas.

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use

Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,

On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;

Throw hither all your quaint, enamell'd eyes

That on the green turf suck the honied showers,

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,

The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears.

—Lycidas.

By the rushy-fringed bankWhere grows the willow and the osier dank.Thus I set my printless feetO'er the cowslip's velvet headThat bends not as I tread.—Comus.

By the rushy-fringed bankWhere grows the willow and the osier dank.

By the rushy-fringed bank

Where grows the willow and the osier dank.

Thus I set my printless feetO'er the cowslip's velvet headThat bends not as I tread.

Thus I set my printless feet

O'er the cowslip's velvet head

That bends not as I tread.

—Comus.

Not very far below Ankerwyke, the river Coln runs into the Thames near Bell Weir Lock, and a little bit above Staines is London Stone, standing in a meadow close by the water. It marked the former jurisdiction of the Lord Mayor of London over the river, but these rights are now vested in the Thames Conservators. Staines does not make the most of itself, or sufficiently endeavour to veil those unsightlinesses incidental to a town.The large gasometers opposite London Stone are not the only blemishes. Standing on the bridge and looking up-stream there are many ugly, yellow-brick, manufacturing buildings to be seen; while the screen of willows does not hide piles of untidy stones, rusty old iron and other uglinesses. Even the very passable island in the centre does not atone. Down stream things are a little better, though the want of architectural beauty in the new church by the river and the "plastered-on" pinnacles of the parish church are both eyesores.

From Staines, however, one may pass rapidly to a fascinating corner at Penton Hook.

Penton Hook is quite peculiar. To a select little coterie of people it istheplace on the river, but to hundreds of others it is not known at all. To its own manifest advantage it is off the "hard high road," and the scorchers and the bounders, and the multitude generally, fly by within a comparatively short distance, little knowing what they have missed. But one or two of the favoured few turn down to quiet little Laleham, andwheeling round a corner come right on to the tow-path by the river's brink; in a hundred yards they are at Penton Hook. But though the Hook is very select and highly favoured, that is not to say it lacks population, only—it is a population of the right sort. Little camps of charming bungalows dot the banks both above and below the lock. Some are built on ground leased from the Conservancy, some on that of private owners. To each man is allotted a strip of ground, with so much river frontage, whereon he builds to his own taste and fancy a little one-storeyed white-painted house, and lays out the tiny garden from which his own white steps reach down to the water. Think of the joy of it! The leader in an important case has been in a stuffy court all day, burdened with his wig and gown, seeing all the dust and stains of unswept corners of human nature; accusing, with upraised finger, the brazen witness who has just perjured himself; dragging from that yellow-faced man the secret he thought buried. Faugh! But the court rises; he is away. The motor takes him down in less than an hour. Gone are the stifling garments; the worn and wicked faces. The dull roar of Strand traffic is replaced by the splashing of thewater as it bounds over the weir. The freed man tumbles into flannels and lies full length on the green grass, smoking, with the water flowing at his feet, or he dawdles in a boat round the Hook, tempting the fish with all the decoys he knows. Happy man!

The trees near the bungalows, and those that fringe the meadows near, are not pollarded; there is space between their tall stems. The short grass, gemmed with pink-tipped daisies, can be seen everywhere, and there is air, and freshness, and openness for everyone. The white paint of the bungalows and their neat green or pink roofs, the rows of geraniums, roses, and other flowers carefully kept and tended, add touches of gaiety and brightness.

There are three weirs, for the river here makes the neatest horse-shoe in its whole length, and the authorities have cut through the neck of land, so that the greater part of the stream goes rioting and tumbling in joyous confusion beneath the great new weir, provided with a pent-house roof, under which it is always cool on the hottest summer day, with transparent reflections dancing on the wall and a ripple and splash below. The second weir, a mere tumbling-weir, is only a few yardsaway. The water does not often leap over it unless it is at flood time, when it affords a safety outlet. The third and widest is a mixture, half sluice gates and half of the tumbling kind. At one time there was no weir here, and boats could avoid the lock by navigating the Hook, but that is now no longer possible. There is one advantage in it; it keeps the Hook more secluded. The little red water-gauge house is connected by wires with Staines, and so to all the rest of England. By an automatic arrangement, the register shows simultaneously here and at the offices of the water company what depth of water there is, so that they may know how much they can take.

At Penton it should be always summer, with dog-roses and sweetbriar, with placid red cows grazing on the tender grass, with boats tethered in the lazy current round the bend of the Hook.

An uncommonly good place for fishing it is, this Hook, as the kingfishers have found out, for they are yearly increasing, and apparently do not mind the gay tide of summer company that invades their haunts. Right down on the banks near the lock one pair nested this year. No steamers churn up the waters and frighten thefish; only a slow-moving house-boat or two towed to position and there left, or those drifting boats belonging to young men and maidens who are content to drift metaphorically as well as actually.

The Abbey river starts away on its own account on the far side of the Hook, and begins its short course of about a couple of miles, to fall into the Thames again at Chertsey. It used to be possible to get up it in a boat, but now it is barred. However, visitors have nothing to complain of, for the meadows around are singularly open to them, and the place is not hedged about with restrictions as are so many river resorts. Numbers of people come down to picnic, and it is no uncommon sight to see quite a row of motors outside the lock-keeper's house, while footman or chauffeur carries across the luncheon hampers to what was once a peninsula but is now an island. Tradesmen's carts come round too, finding in the swallow-colony quite enough demand to make it worth their while; and year by year the bungalows grow. A whole new piece of meadow, hitherto osier bed, is even now going to be devoted to them. "Why, I get as many as twenty to thirty applications for land every week," says the lock-keeper. It is to be hoped PentonHook will not become over-populated, or the delightful freedom from conventionality which now characterises it might die away. "Ladies who come down here—why, some of them, they never put a hat on their heads the whole time, and I was going to say not shoes or stockings either!" The place is particularly sought after by theatrical people. Miss Ellen Terry still holds the bungalow she has had for many years. It is surprising how early the season begins; even at the end of chilly March a few of the first of the swallows appear.

Between Chertsey and Penton Hook is Laleham, where the tiny ivy-covered church is too much hidden away to be seen easily. An old red brick moss-grown wall is the chief object near the river, and with the bending trees and quiet fields there is a sense of brooding peace which only remains in places off the main roads. Matthew Arnold was born at Laleham and is buried in the churchyard. His father, Dr. Arnold of Rugby,came here in 1819, but he left when Matthew was only six, to take the head-mastership of Rugby.

Between Laleham and Chertsey there is some open, rather untidy ground on which gypsies are wont to camp. It cannot be said that the river looks its best above Chertsey. The country is too flat and open, and on a summer day one is too often scorched. Yet there is always some beauty to be found, and it is certainly in open spaces like these that we see best reflected "heaven's own blue." Away to the west the tiny Abbey river flows in past a mill. By Chertsey bridge a triumphant victory in regard to right-of-way over the Thames Conservancy in 1902, is recorded on two newly built villas. Opposite is the Bridge Hotel, which, with its little bay, its Lombardy poplars and green lawn, is a pleasant oasis.

Chertsey Abbey, which was of great fame, lay between the town and the river. It was founded in 666, and some Saxon tiles from the flooring may be seen in the British Museum. The buildings were destroyed by the Danes, but it was re-established in 964 as a Benedictine Monastery.

Nothing shows more the immense power of themonks in England than these mighty abbeys which studded the country. We have come across so many, even in our short journey between Oxford and London, that the fact cannot escape notice; though they probably were more thickly set beside the river than elsewhere, because, as I have said, flowing water attracted these old monks for more than one reason. There is hardly anything left of Chertsey Abbey now, yet in its prime it was like a small town, giving employment to hundreds of people. There are a few ivy-covered steps near the back of the church and an old bit of wall doubtfully supposed to have been part of the boundary; this is near the Abbey river. Henry VI. was buried at Chertsey, and his funeral is referred to in Shakespeare's play ofRichard III.:

... after I have solemnly interr'dAt Chertsey monast'ry this noble king,And wet his grave with my repentant tears.

... after I have solemnly interr'd

At Chertsey monast'ry this noble king,

And wet his grave with my repentant tears.

So he makes the hypocritical Duke of Gloucester speak. Cowley, the poet, lived in Chertsey for two years before his death. The house still stands; it has an overhanging storey and is covered with rough stucco. Charles James Fox was born in a house near, and this probably decided him inmaking choice of a residence many years later, for he chose St. Anne's Hill, only two miles away, which can be seen far and wide around. There he settled to indulge in the delightful hobby of improving his grounds.

Below Chertsey Bridge is an excellent punting reach, where the championship punting competition is held every year in the beginning of August. This is, doubtless, the reason why Chertsey is crowded with visitors in the summer, when out of all the innumerable lodgings scarcely a room is to be had.

The river about Weybridge and Shepperton is much more varied than at Chertsey, and to my mind variety is a direct element of beauty in river scenery. We have passed through flat meadows lined with straight ranks of Lombardy poplars that might belong to northern France, and then suddenly, at Weybridge, we begin once more curves and twists and unexpected islands and snug corners. There is a ferry across the river, and the place seems to get along wonderfully well without a bridge. In the middle of the stream is a well-kept island which belonged to the late Mr. D'Oyly Carte; it is hedged about with an exclusive wall, enclosing apretty garden. In the centre is a neat white house with projecting tiles.

In every direction there are numerous boat-building establishments. The lock island is large and has other buildings on it besides the lock-keeper's cottage. It is a favourite camping ground in summer, and has rather an untidy appearance. The wide-mouthed Wey flows in beside a couple of other islands, and is itself a very attractive place to explore, winding away through meadows and beneath overhanging trees. It is, however, not free from locks, though of a somewhat simpler kind than those on the Thames. Weybridge is a fresh and pleasant place, rapidly growing in all directions, and in its gorsy common land and masses of pine woods it reminds one of the parts of Surrey about Camberley. On the green stands the column which once presented seven faces to the seven streets in London, called after it Seven Dials. Since then it has risen in life, having been bought and surmounted with a coronet instead of the dial stone; this was in honour of the Duchess of York, who died in 1820. She lived at Oatlands Park and was very popular.

Oatlands Park is the great place of the neighbourhood. It was once a hunting ground of KingHenry VIII., but now belongs to a large residential hotel. Nothing remains of the building, which was used by many of our English monarchs. George IV. entertained here the Emperor of Russia, the King of Prussia, and all the princes and generals who visited England after Waterloo. In 1790 the Duke of York, who is commemorated by the column in Waterloo Place, bought and rebuilt the house, and still later it was in the possession of the Earl of Ellesmere. Remodelled, the house still stands as the hotel. A large piece of ornamental water in the grounds is almost as great an attraction as Virginia Water. Just where the park touches the river is the place known as Cowey Stakes. It is said that here Cæsar crossed the river when in pursuit of Cassivelaunus, in 54B.C.The stakes, which are no longer to be seen, are supposed to have been placed there to obstruct his use of the ford. They had been so long under water, that when found they were like ebony; they were about six feet long and shod with iron. They appear to have been too imposing and carefully formed to have been put in for the mere purpose of a river weir or for fishing; but, on the other hand, instead of running with the axis of the river,as would appear reasonable if they were meant to obstruct the passage of men, they were planted across it like a weir. They have afforded matter for endless discussion among antiquaries.

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